The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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THE Nineteenth ODE of the Third Book of HORACE, IMITATED. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
108
THE Nineteenth ODE of the Third Book of HORACE, IMITATED.
Inscribed to AMBROSE SMITH, Esq;
With too much Toil, methinks, you trace
Our British Kings, from Race to Race,
Who 're dead and rotten long since;
With civil Wars, to crack your Pate,
And virtuous Hampden's glorious Fate,
Is all a Pack of Nonsense.
Our British Kings, from Race to Race,
Who 're dead and rotten long since;
With civil Wars, to crack your Pate,
And virtuous Hampden's glorious Fate,
Is all a Pack of Nonsense.
109
A better Study, this, by Half,—
Learn where to live, and how to laugh,
And catch the Claret going;
Tell me who caters, where we meet,
Who calls the Toast, who gives the Treat;
For this is worth the knowing.
Learn where to live, and how to laugh,
And catch the Claret going;
Tell me who caters, where we meet,
Who calls the Toast, who gives the Treat;
For this is worth the knowing.
Boy—shew the Daphne!—Lights here—Light!
Allen's the Wine we drink To-night;
For Drinking is the Scheme, Sirs:
A Bumper—come—with all my Heart;
Three Rounds we'll have, before we part,
And three Times three to them, Sirs.
Allen's the Wine we drink To-night;
For Drinking is the Scheme, Sirs:
A Bumper—come—with all my Heart;
Three Rounds we'll have, before we part,
And three Times three to them, Sirs.
Nine Rounds for him who serves the Muses,
Drinks, till he stares, but ne'er refuses,
Nor Reckoning heeds, nor Riot;
Three Rounds for them who court the Graces,
Who grudge the Cash, and fear their Faces,
And love to live in Quiet.
Drinks, till he stares, but ne'er refuses,
Nor Reckoning heeds, nor Riot;
Three Rounds for them who court the Graces,
Who grudge the Cash, and fear their Faces,
And love to live in Quiet.
Come—let the joyous Sport begin—
More Wine!—bring Girls—Hark, there!—call in
Those Violins, and Tabors:
I hate a Flincher from my Soul;
Fill up—fill up the sparkling Bowl;—
We'll rouse the sleeping Neighbours.
More Wine!—bring Girls—Hark, there!—call in
Those Violins, and Tabors:
I hate a Flincher from my Soul;
Fill up—fill up the sparkling Bowl;—
We'll rouse the sleeping Neighbours.
We'll storm the drowsy Sons of Care;
Fret them with Envy, and Despair,
To see such jolly Fellows:
Quick, quick—clear off—the Bottle ply;
Toast all their Daughters Bumper high;
And make the old Folks jealous.
Fret them with Envy, and Despair,
To see such jolly Fellows:
Quick, quick—clear off—the Bottle ply;
Toast all their Daughters Bumper high;
And make the old Folks jealous.
110
But, you may thank th'indulgent Fates;
For you the blooming ------ waits,
To bless your happy Bed:
My cruel Fair I cannot move;
But hope, in Time, to win to Love,
The slow consenting Maid.
For you the blooming ------ waits,
To bless your happy Bed:
My cruel Fair I cannot move;
But hope, in Time, to win to Love,
The slow consenting Maid.
| The Shamrock | |